No Sense, No Shame
by eldritcher
Summary: In which Voldemort betrays knowledge of filthy Latin literature, Snape gets off on breath play and other assorted acts of debauchery, and it is all a lewd medley.


In which Voldemort betrays knowledge of filthy Latin literature, Snape gets off on breath play and other assorted acts of debauchery, and it is all a lewd medley.

* * *

"I have no sense, Gallas, and you have no shame."

I looked up. He was still at his desk, though he had shifted his attention from the musty tome he had been reading to my splayed, nude form on the bed. There was a gentle quirk on his lips and a sparkle in his eyes.

"My lord?" I asked him, curious about his words that had made no sense to me.

He certainly was right about my lack of shame. The wide windows were open and not shaded by curtains. Anyone going by on a broom-stick would see clearly me as I was, chained naked to the bedposts. The first part of his sentence, however, was far from true, and even if it had been, he would be the last to admit so. Who was Gallas?

"Martial," he said, standing up and stretching. I felt a ridiculous sense of accomplishment at having earned his trust enough for him to feel comfortable doing something as pedestrian as stretching himself after a long time spent at his desk.

"Who was he?" I asked.

"A classical poet," he said. "I forget often that you did not have the benefits of a classical education. A pity too, since there was enough material in them to satisfy even your tastes."

"My tastes?"

"It has all been done before, after all," he said, now with a note of teasing in his voice. He waved his hand and the chains holding me vanished. I felt velvet arousal dampening my senses upon feeling his powerful magic.

"Like that, do you?" he asked, curiosity sparkling in his eyes now.

He had been a rather timid lover in the beginning. I had despaired of trying to tell him that I wanted him to own me. One would have thought that he might have caught onto my needs since my first proclamation of love and desire had involved me casting my clothes off, kneeling before him and thrusting my genitals outwards in surrender. Nothing had gone the way I had wanted it to. He had been unwilling to even touch me in the beginning. When we had finally become intimate, I had been asked to make love to him, instead of the other way around.

Then, unpredictably, he had become increasingly daring after that, and now, he thought nothing of having me teased, tormented and displayed in various lewd positions for hours at length. It had surpassed my wildest expectations.

I was a lucky man.

Lucius had knowing grins each time he saw me after an encounter. Narcissa was bold enough to ask me what the Lord did to make me as happy as a Cheshire cat. Lucius would not let me tell her that our lord had a mind more depraved than the best whores in Soho.

"Stand up," he asked.

His voice was rarely raised, but the command implicit was evident all the same. I obeyed him quickly.

A blindfold, snug around my eyes, came to being. I gasped. Then I shrieked a shriek that went unheard, as powerful, wet tendrils of something enveloped me whole, stuffing my mouth, my ears, my nostrils, my arse and even the little slit in my cock. I could not scream, I could not beg, I could not thrust and I could not even breathe. I panicked, as my lungs fought for air, and then the tendrils in my nostrils eased slightly letting me take a gulp of breath. Then they came back, stuffing me again. So it went, with the tendrils easing away just as I panicked for breath, and coming back immediately after I had taken air in. On and on, and then the tendrils in my arse started thrusting upwards onto my prostate, and the one in my cock started circling gently.

"Good evening," he greeted me, making no attempt to fight the smugness off his expression, when I finally came to on the large bed. He was standing by the bed, looking down at me. I felt light-headed, my stomach was sticky and I knew why, and my holes felt sore after the ravishment dealt out by those tendrils.

"What were those?" I asked him, and my voice was shamefully raspy.

"Humid air at high pressure," he told me solemnly. "It was a delicate business to Conjure, but I managed."

"Yes, you did," I whispered reverentially.

He had a knack for innovation, mixing in Muggle science with magic. It led to the strangest results, as this one. I had no complaint. My sore, happy holes all agreed on that. Strange, I reflected, that he claimed to hate Muggles so and still understood their science better than most others did. He loved their classical poetry. He loved their arts. He hated the race, all the same.

He shielded a yawn with his left hand and tried to look forbidding. I grinned. I knew well that I would love anything he dealt out as punishment. So, boldly, I remarked, "You look sleepy."

He frowned at my presumptuousness, then said wryly, "As I said, I have no sense, and you have no shame."

"You look sleepy," I insisted.

I must have looked horrible, grinning as I did. Smiles did not suit me, and I looked ugly enough as it was. I found that I did not worry much about how I looked, in his bed.

"I am," he admitted. "It is not easy to hold such delicate magic together for the amount of time I did."

I sat up, concerned for his weariness, and promptly felt tremendously light-headed. He made a noise of impatience and nudged me back to my earlier prone state.

"Careful, you were deprived of air when you climaxed."

It was impossible that he had lost control of his magic at the end. He was too careful.

"You refused to breathe, Severus," he muttered, now looking displeased. "I had to will air into your lungs."

"It made the orgasm more intense," I said, remembering.

"I am glad to hear that," he said caustically. "I do not seek to deny you the pleasure, but it would be in your best interest to not forget to breathe after such activities involving prolonged oxygen deprivation the next time."

"It is called breath play," I informed him.

"I am not interested in knowing what the Soho whores call it," he said.

"There is no comparison," I said stoutly. It was true. His magic was an aphrodisiac all by itself, protecting me from my excesses even while pleasuring me through sweet torment.

"There definitely isn't," he said laconically, turning away and heading back to his desk. "After all, I doubt their version had the potential to crush your body if they had lost control."

Humid air at high pressure. I inhaled sharply. He was so powerful. If he had had less control of that power, those tendrils would have choked me, crushed me.

"Afraid now?" he asked, head buried in his correspondence.

"Not at all," I said sincerely. "It is you, my lord."

"Foolish man," he muttered, though the complaint seemed half-hearted.

* * *

"I see you look satiated," Lucius grumbled.

Narcissa was busy with caring for young Draco and Lucius often returned home to a cold bed. While he was the most heterosexual man I knew, the lack of regular sex turned him grumpy and jealous of anyone who was having a better time of it.

"What are you reading?" Lucius asked, and promptly pulled the book out of my hands without as much as a by your leave. Then he started reciting the first poem printed on a page he had flung open at random, in his damned, melodious voice.

_"If powerful men take you up,_

_at meals, theatres, and porticos,_

_like riding and bathing with you,_

_wherever you happen to go,_

_don't be too proud, Philomusus:_

_you give pleasure, it isn't love."_

He looked up at me, nonplussed by my choice of reading material. I was rather stricken, and took a deep breath to calm myself. I had taken up Martial's book of poetry to see what had appealed to Lord Voldemort so. I had been enjoying the lewd epigrams, and had not stumbled across this one. Lucius, of course, had managed to.

I spent the rest of my time that day wondering about the lord's interest in me. Lucius had the good sense to let me brood by myself.

* * *

The meeting was as all the other meetings had been. Bella Black simpered, Walden spoke of severe measures that appealed to the conservatives, Lucius advocated integration that appealed to the liberals, Rabastan droned on about finances, the new recruits fidgeted and gossiped amongst themselves, and the Lord remained quiet as was his wont at most meetings. Today, he seemed more distant than usual. I wondered if it was the cold bothering him. Then I yelped. Narcissa, sitting beside me, looked at me in concern. I shook my head, took out my handkerchief and mopped my brow.

I glared at Bella Black. She was very like Sirius and cruel pranks targeted at me was her hobby. She would not dare Levitate me upside-down now, not while the Lord was there, but she could Vanish away my undergarments and she had done so.

"Why do you smell of olive oil?" Narcissa muttered.

I did not say anything. I knew now that Bella Black was not to blame. She was perverse, but gentle swirls of magic daubing olive oil on the furls around my arse-hole was not something that she would think of doing. The magic was gentle and precise, and I knew it well. It continued, teasingly sliding from my balls, down my perineum onto my hole. I glared. I could not glare directly at him, so I glared at the floor.

It was the longest meeting in memory. The lord seemed distant and thoughtful, Lucius and Walden droned on and on, and the rest of us fidgeted. My fidgeting was soon put a stop to, by gentle magic binding me still.

After the intolerable event came to an end, after everyone had dispersed, after even Narcissa had left shooting me concerned glances until she closed the door behind her, I remained still and bound by invisible magic, my genitals daubed in olive oil, sweat dripping down my brow, and my cock yearning to surrender.

"A productive meeting, was it not?" my lord asked, still seated where he was, looking at me with deep amusement.

He liked toying with me, and I loved being toyed with.

"You should not use so much magic on me," I said pertly. "You will be worn out and be a sitting duck for Moody at the next encounter."

His eyes flashed. If he had had less control, I would have suffered immediately. Instead, I knew I would suffer delightfully over time. He had patience. I looked forward to it.

I lost my clothes then. My eyes darted to the door.

"I will not lock it," he said quietly. "Do you think you deserve that?"

I drew in a sharp breath.

"I am going to sit here. You are going to crawl to me, slowly, once I release you from the magic binding you."

I crawled, luxuriating in his gaze on my nude form. I had a cheap camera. I would often take pictures of myself nude and craving, and hope that someday someone whom I trusted enough would make me do all of that. Now I was a lucky man.

"I wonder if you know how debauched you look right now," he remarked. "You are a sight. Come here, lick my right foot, won't you?"

I did so, and his left foot came to my genitals, kneading gently. He had long, dexterous toes. They taunted my tongue and they taunted my cock and balls.

"Feel free to make use of my toes, if you wish," he said suggestively.

I groaned and quickly bent all the toes on his left foot but one, the biggest. That I promptly inserted into my arse-hole, taunted to hunger by his games of earlier. I was afraid that I might break it with my enthusiasm, but he was a careful man and I trusted him to keep his toe unbroken despite my boisterousness. It was long, but not long enough. It was thick, but not thick enough. I whined in need, taunted by its presence, taunted by the toes of his right foot playing with my tongue. He sat transfixed, perhaps unwilling to move and risk harming his toe encased in my arse, perhaps even admiring the sight of my wantonness.

"Get up," he said, finally, and I groaned as I did so, regretting the loss of his toes.

He looked down at his toes, now made shiny by saliva and the olive oil. With a sniff of displeasure, he waved his hand and magic cleaned them. I felt deliciously filthier watching that.

"You are to turn around, bend over as much as you can, stay balanced and stay still. I am going to shave you bare. The next time you bend over for me, I want to see not a single hair."

"With magic?" I whispered, knowing that if I asked he would be contrary.

"No, without," he said briskly, delighting me.

I knew not if his delicacy and precision with his magic extended to a straight razor. That I was ignorant and frightened made my arousal go higher. I wondered if he knew. Perhaps his lack of moral scruples was what held him from being utterly unnerved each time he was exposed to a new facet of my sexuality. Perhaps his willingness to humour me was drawn from his lack of interest in what became of me. Perhaps he would not be shaken at all if I was harmed by our acts and that was what turned him bold. I remembered the poem that Lucius had read aloud and my arousal receded. Then it returned, involuntarily, as he began carefully lathering my nether regions with a cream that stung more than mildly. I was sure that deliberation had gone into that choice.

"A dash of ginger," he murmured contentedly, as he continued his self-appointed task.

I could not keep still, not with the ginger, and not when he went about this in such a placid manner as if there was all the time in the world for this. Then he placed his right palm, cool and firm and open, on the small of my back and I settled into stillness again. He was left-handed, and his left hand was busy going about his task. He did not nick my skin even once. He was careful and the movements of his razor were as precise as that of the finest surgeon wielding a scalpel, or an artist adding strokes to a masterpiece.

I would have died early, in ignominy, if I had not had the good fortune to attain his attention. He was a skillful man.

He exhaled softly when he was done, and murmured, "Well, I am glad that you maintained your arousal throughout the procedure. It would have been rendered more difficult otherwise."

His fingers were circling the skin on my balls, and my voice was shaky when I replied, "Anything to aid you."

His laughter was high and cold, but something that pleased me nonetheless.

* * *

Later that night, on the bed I lay supine, watching the shadows of the trees dance against the candlelit walls of my room. I could not sleep, not while I was bothered by the low murmurs in the corridor outside, where I knew my lover was speaking with a portrait of a dead man.

They spoke of how our Lord had become mad with grief after Abraxas Malfoy's death. They spoke of how he had never returned to sanity again. I was a toy, wasn't I? I was a diversion that took his mind off the death of a man.

When I passed through the corridors of Malfoy Manor, Abraxas Malfoy's portrait would greet me cheerfully and ask, with no concealment of interest, "How is our dear Lord doing? Are you making sure that he eats enough? Do you make certain that he is not too taxed by his intellectual pursuits? Do you guard him as best as you can while you follow him into battle? Why is he thinner?"

I remembered again the poem that Lucius had read today.

I had no consolation, though I was as well-fucked every night as only a bride is on her wedding night. He never spent the nights with me. It seemed that fucking and loving were different beasts in his head and he had only chosen the first for me.

* * *

"I am having my portrait painted today," he said absently, after one of our long, adventurous nights spent in debauchery.

He had come to quite like sex after his initial reluctance. He initiated it almost often enough for my liking. I had found that he was rarely unwilling to indulge me if I asked.

"Portrait?"

"Yes, in case," he said, frowning. The subject of death sat ill with him and all of us who valued our lives veered clear of it. It was as Napoleon and cats.

Portrait. He wanted a portrait painted and I knew why. He wanted to return to his beloved Abraxas in case he did die. I could not win. I could never win. There was no competing with a dead, handsome, kind man.

"What distresses you?" he asked. He had chosen a pesky time to be perceptive.

"Nothing, my lord."

"Do you wish to have sex?" he asked, politely. "I am not interested in direct involvement, but I would be quite interested in ordering you about through a variety of interesting acts before granting you a worthy orgasm."

He was always so darned polite. I hated it. I wanted to bring him down to the coarse and the vulgar. I wanted his sweet voice - for a murderer, he had a voice sweeter than any member of the finest Catholic choirs - I wanted his sweet voice to be wrapped around filthy words as he fucked me. I wanted him to tell me that he would never demand the same debauchery of anyone but me. I wanted him to be drunk on the obedience I willingly gave him and then helplessly be consumed by his lust to want to throw me down, hold me helpless and then thrust wildly into me until he came. He was rarely interested in 'direct involvement', preferring to let his magic do the job.

"I don't want sex," I muttered. I had worked myself into a black temper. It would do me no good to prolong this conversation. He had a rein on his temper, but I would be a sorry corpse if he turned angry.

"That is novel," he said. A tone of teasing had crept into his voice. I inhaled deeply and willed myself to not shout.

"Are you quite all right?"

He was a persistent man, when he chose to be.

"Severus?"

"Why did you let him die? Why didn't you use Necromancy?"

He looked perplexed. I had signed my death warrant in any case. I continued, recklessly.

"Why did you let him die?"

Understanding dawned in his gaze. There was conflict too. His voice was slightly uneven when he replied. Nobody would have noticed it, but I had paid attention to the many variations in his tone and had memorised them all deep in my heart.

"He trespassed, Severus, somewhere very precious to me."

Abraxas Malfoy had been the soul of discretion. He had been a man who generally kept his nose out of everyone's business. Was it the insanity that the Lord had in him which had led to his mistaken assumption? Or had Abraxas actually tried to reason with this madman?

"I am not sure I can believe that of him," I said firmly. Speaking ill of a dead man sat badly with me, especially when I had seen, as everyone had seen, how devoted said dead man had been to our lord.

My lord looked disconcerted. I could see anger reined in with difficulty in his bright gaze. His words were slow and cautious when he replied, "It is understandable that you are kind towards those who have held your affection, even if they are lost to you."

Abraxas Malfoy was dead. My lord had been fond of him. However, I did not see how accusing him of trespassing was kind.

"O weighty remedy!" my lord exclaimed suddenly, a wild sparkle in his eyes. He looked truly eldritch then. I was frightened, but I held his gaze.

"My lord?"

"If you want me to use Necromancy, I will oblige," he promised. His smile was taut and did not reach his eyes. His fingers were clenched on the fine mahogany of the desk he sat at.

I frowned. I truly wanted to leave and forget that this conversation had happened. His madness, for a madness had taken hold of him, frightened me. Perhaps it was testimony to how deeply he had cared for Abraxas Malfoy. I was neither fair nor kind, but there were fair and kind men in the world. It would break my heart, but Lily had already done so once.

"Surely, my lord, there might be others," I suggested, trying my best to paste on a smile (though my smile was an ugly thing to behold).

He looked truly shaken for a moment.

"I only want the best," I said wildly. I only wanted the best for him. Whatever kept him sane, whatever kept him contented, was the best. I would be only a wayside casualty. The world would be better off.

He laughed queerly, and began singing in his voice, a voice that was crafted for music and wasted on the Unforgivables.

_"Leda tells her aged spouse she suffers from nerves,_

_and cries that she absolutely has to be fucked;_

_but, with tears and moans, sighs nothing is worth that,_

_and declares she's reconciled to dying instead._

_He begs her, live, not lose her years of youth,_

_and lets be done what he can't do now himself._

_The female doctors leave, males take their place,_

_her knees are raised. O weighty remedy!"_

I could make no sense of that. There was that too. Abraxas Malfoy had possessed a fine mind. I did not.

"If you want the young and the best, you must indulge," he told me then. "I am not young. I have come to like carnality when you are involved, but it truly does not come to me naturally as it does to you. If you want other lovers, I ask that we end our arrangement before you pursue them."

I stood there, benumbed and bewildered, blinking at him.

"Regulus Black trespassed somewhere he should never have. I don't regret his death. You have my condolences for your loss, all the same. I hope our interludes have been of some use to offset that loss."

"Regulus?" I asked. Regulus had gone missing. He was dead? He had been a bright thing, on the cusp between boy and man. Stars. They were named after stars.

My lord looked impatient and angry. Truly angry.

"What does Regulus have to do with anything?"

Then I realized something else. I asked, stumbling more words over words in haste, "Why would I want other lovers?"

He frowned more. I wanted his brow to clear. I wanted to understand where Regulus and other lovers had come in. Regulas had not even been my lover. I had had only women from Soho as lovers before. I had paid for them, and they had not kissed me. So they were not technically lovers.

"You are the only man I find attractive," I said quietly, finally understanding where this had gone wrong terribly. "I am appalled that you would think me faithless."

He still frowned.

"I was speaking of Abraxas Malfoy," I said gently, as gently as I could, because it was a name that held great power.

His eyes widened. I could feel his magic, restless, swiveling around us. I wondered if the name spoken would do what even his mistaken assumption about my interest in Regulus had not done. I realized something then - he had not lashed out, he had not sent me to the ground whimpering from a Curse when he had assumed me to be speaking from dissatisfaction with our current arrangement.

"Severus, hear this well. I will say it only once." He stood up, came around the desk to face me and drew in close. We were so close that I could see the fine hairs on his neck.

He continued, "He is dead. You and I are alive. I know the difference. You don't seem to. Why else would you compare yourself with a mausoleum?"

"But-"

He waved his hand at the bluebells that stood in a jar, and he said earnestly,

_"The Mausoleum tells us to live, that one nearby,_

_it teaches us that the gods themselves can die."_

It broke something in me. It broke in me something that had been encased in resentment, sadness, and wretched fear, clung to tightly and nursed well during long nights alone while I listened to him speak to a portrait.

"Enough of this!" he exclaimed, staving my apology off before I could begin to voice it. "Come now, strip for me. Make it an erotic dance, while you are at it. If you do it well, I will indulge you with a whim of your choosing in the bedroom, no holds barred."

I thought my body was an ugly patchwork of scars and pockmarks over malnourished, sallow skin clinging to bones. He did not mind. That was a miracle I was grateful for everyday. So I took off my clothes, slowly, garment by garment, and watched with pleasure as his breathing deepened while I gyrated my hips as obscenely as a dancer I had once watched in Soho had.

Now I only had my wool stockings on. I was about to peel them off when he cut in saying, "Keep them on. They complement your bare, shaven cock and balls in a manner I cannot fully explain. Ask your whim. I am quite enchanted by your performance."

I did not think that I was capable of enchanting anyone with my physical charm. So I overlooked that polite claim. Now there was the matter of my wish. What would I want?

"Anything?" I asked.

He nodded, then added, "I might advise you to refrain from anything involving magic mixed with the erotic. It does require control you do not currently possess."

That he was right did not make me happy. I thought of what I could ask for. He would grant me submission if I asked, even if it was not what he enjoyed, but I did not care for it. I liked him dominating me with word and touch. It would be a waste of the opportunity to ask for that, however. He was a perceptive lover and would sooner or later chance upon whatever I chose to ask for.

I knew what I craved.

"Would you sleep with me?"

If he was surprised, he did not show it. He looked thoughtful, then said quietly, "I am a restless sleeper."

"That is my request."

He nodded.

"Naked," I added.

He frowned, but nodded again.

It was awkward. The number of occasions I had seen him naked had been few. So I drank my fill in while he looked irritated. He was pale and scrawny, but his bones were sculpted fine over his skin. He had undressed in a matter-of-fact manner, neither shy nor erotic. I wondered if I would one day be as nonchalant about undressing before him. He settled on the bed, drew the coverlet over himself, and kept to his side as still as a statue. I lay a few inches away, wondering how to get us in contact. I needn't have wondered. In the pale of dawn, I woke to find my head on his breast, his right hand in my hair and his left hand on my neck.

I kissed him softly on the corner of his mouth. He stirred but did not wake. I retrieved the Martial book of poetry and flung it open at random. I would settle for reading until he woke. I did not wish to sleep more, but neither did I wish to leave this embrace. I had another dilemma. I was afflicted by the normal affliction of men in the morning. My cock demanded that I do something about it, using the sleep-warm body under me. I had the sense not to give in. He did not mind my depravities as long as he was not directly involved. I had the suspicion he would not be forbearing if he woke to find my precum on his flesh. I tried to move my lower body away from him.

"Good morning," murmured the man in my bed, sounding inquisitive and polite both.

I kept quiet, trying to wonder what to say next.

"Surely I cannot be your first lover, apart from the ladies of Soho," he said mildly, taking in my predicament with amusement.

I shook my head. I feared letting him know that he had been my first lover. I feared that he would think me callow and unworthy if he knew. Only he had taken me to bed. All the others had been paid. Him too, perhaps I paid, in blood and magic bound by the Dark Mark. I shook my head again. He had not taken everyone to bed.

"Severus?" his voice broke then, lapsing into incredulous laughter. I groaned and waited for the mocking. Black had always said that the only bedmates I would find would have to be paid twice the going rate. It had been true.

"Well, I am pleased," my companion said, once his laughter had receded. I waited for the mocking. None followed.

"My lord?"

"I do like a fresh canvas," he said. "Most men do. You should have told me this earlier. Matters would progressed faster. I had reservations about being a experimental notch on your bedpost, given that you were notoriously known to be knee-deep in cunt."

"You had reservations?" I asked, startled. I looked at him. He lay prone, his hands playing idly with the coverlet, his legs comfortably spread to accommodate my form, his eyes curious as they swept across my features. Why would he have reservations? He was grace given form.

"I am not young," he pointed out. "Whatever charm and youth I might have had in bearing and form was likely gone long before you were born. I was a malnourished child and it has taken its toll on my health. I aged rapidly compared to my peers. Miss McGonagall, for instance, is as dapper as she was at thirty."

"You are painfully handsome!" I said, thoughts unfiltered as the import of his words struck me. "You really are, you know. When I touch you, I fear I often feel as if I am touching marble with grubby hands."

He looked rather unsettled. Then he said quietly, "You are a young man. Put your youth to good use now, won't you? Let us not speak of such mundane matters on a morning as this."

"Put my youth to good use?" I asked, bewildered.

He waved a lazy hand at himself and said, "Help yourself."

I knew I would not have this again. I knew it somehow. The Dark Lord was a domineering man. I loved it when he ordered me about in the bedroom. This was going to be only once. So I took him up on the offer. I would worship him in a way he would never think of ordering me to. I kissed him as wetly as I had often wanted to, he refrained from protesting, I bit and nibbled my way down his chest to his washboard-flat stomach. He inhaled deeply and spread his legs wider in tacit invitation. I put my lips somewhere that brought a sharp gasp of shock from him.

"Don't stop," he ordered.

I had no intent to. In whorls, I played my tongue on the tender flesh leading downward from his perineum, eliciting soft gasps from him. I turned braver, and dared insert my tongue, teasing him with fast jabs and languid withdrawals alternating.

Chandeliers swayed dangerously, a gust of air blew the curtains wild, the candles guttered, and my neck aching complained of the tight hold of his thighs.

"I will bring the roof down if you continue," he said brokenly.

Exhilarated by the power of how undone I had turned him with tongue and touch, I chuckled and continued. He keened and lifted himself wantonly to gain more of my attention. His stomach was glistening with the precum from his cock. His eyes had blackened in desire and stayed wide open as unseeing pools fixed on me.

Then he did something so spectacularly unimaginable and set to fire all my notions of knowing him well enough. He twisted under me until he was on his stomach, his hands came purposefully to part his arse-cheeks and he offered himself with a cant of his hips.

"Continue," he demanded.

His voice was hoarse melody and still reminded me of Catholic choirs.

I obeyed gladly. He was a painting of passion, his head thrown back, his hands taut as they held himself open, and his body, slick with sweat, dancing with abandon to the tune of my tongue. He was quiet, even now, his mouth parted on a silent gasp. His magic spoke for him, as it swirled and enveloped us in its dark, shifting, intense embrace. I had begun to fear for the roof. His magic might bring it down indeed, if he continued to be so stimulated. Yet I wanted more, I wanted him to be directly involved, I wanted him cresting on the same waves that he invoked in me when he chose to. I wanted him to know that he was marble rare and I was lucky to touch him, as pedestrian as I was.

"Shields," he whispered, almost a plea.

I did not understand. Perhaps he meant the Silencing Charms on the room. They ought to hold. I continued my task ardently. I suspected he might reach orgasm without a touch to his cock, for so potent seemed his state of arousal. He reared his head once again, reminding me of Lucius's fine, purebred horses cantering on the Spanish plains, and then I screamed, for my mind was torn into shreds by the magic stifling the room.

He did look apologetic when I came to. I could feel tendrils of his magic soothing my mind, lulling it into calm after the storm.

"Was it that good?" I asked.

He nodded and settled back onto the pillows. He looked exhausted. He must have been, first worn out by my activities and then made tired by healing my mind after he had lost control of his magic. He had lost control of his magic.

"You are unforgivably talented at arse-licking," he said, and to me he sounded defensive.

He lay quiescent under my touch when I dared to stroke my fingers down the long, lean lines of his exhausted body. Unusually, he had not cleaned us magically yet. So it was uncomfortable and cold, yet I found it alluring. He looked alien in the moonlight, and I had drawn from him surrender enough to cause a loss of control over his magic.

I grinned and closed my eyes, letting the calm wash over me. He seemed content to be quiet too. I was glad. I could touch him and he found pleasure enough in my touch.

"You were an idiot if you had been doubting your physical attractiveness before." He then cut into my thoughts as he often did. I did not have the will to be irritated, not while he had unrestrainedly sung that carnal song for me scarce moments ago. He continued, "I do find you attractive. Hence the reason why I find myself ever so often debauching you."

His eyes were still faintly glazed. His lips were chapped and bruised as if he had bit down on them hard. His pale skin bore the marks of my teeth and nails. His thighs glistened wet. His hair was askew and fine strands clung to his brow. He was an eldritch statue my pedestrian touch had brought to song.

He raised his eyebrows, curious about my steady appraisal of him.

"What fascinates you so?"

"Art," I replied.

He tilted his head, rather imperiously, demanding a clearer answer.

"Art. You."

He looked incredulous, then irritated, and finally unsettled. I smiled. He made an impatient noise, beckoned me forth, and when I obeyed promptly, granted me a kiss. I was not Abraxas Malfoy. And that was all right.

* * *

A/N : This forms a complement of sorts to A Church Without A Steeple. Both of the pieces are gratuitous out-takes from The Judas Triptych set. Apologies.

Martial was a Roman poet whose epigrams are lewd, pithy and titillating. They are archived on Wikipedia and Latinpoets.


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